


Gravity and Levity

by SharpestRose



Series: Gravity and Levity [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conversations on the true nature of curses, pursuits, lost loves, and requisite rum content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity and Levity

Jack thinks that this is a much better state of affairs, and that he'll have to remember to make a note with the crew to fiendishly take Norrington prisoner more often. This way he can have a chat whenever he feels like it, unlike that last jaunt to Port Royal where he hung 'round in that cell near three weeks and barely got a heigh-ho for his trouble. Then the weather started to come good and Jack knew Norrington would want to try that hanging business again. It's putting a dampner on their interaction, in Jack's opinion, the way Norrington won't stop attempting to kill him.

No, this way's much better. Norrington's sitting with his back against the portside rail, eyes closed and shoulders tensed. Jack knows the brig is more traditional for the stowing of captives but it smells dreadful in there ever since an unknown member of the crew (Jack has his suspicions) offered a critique of their captain's singing in the form of several dozen non-figurative really bad eggs in a crate.

Anyway, there's nowhere for Norrington to go if he gets it in his head to run, and it's a clear and windy day for being on deck.

"Is this wise, Cap'n?" Gibbs asks with a motion towards the prisoner. Jack shrugs, not particularly valuing wisdom as a virtue. Wise people are pompous with the glut of knowledge, and the only true surprises offered to such a person by life are the short sharp shocks when the world proves their wisdom incorrect. Jack would rather be a perpetual apprentice than a master, his brain would become sticky with cobwebs if he started thinking he was too clever to ponder things.

He's been pondering about religion today, and reckons he's got a metaphorical explanation for Norrington's personality near figured. Port Royal is far from Jack's own visions of Eden, but the analogy fits so he doesn't dwell on it. The Port's Norrington's Eden, and the Commodore himself is that angel with the big flamin' sword at the gate. Trouble is that, from what Jack can see, the angel might have an important job but never gets any fun. Doesn't get to hang around in Paradise because he's busy protecting it all the time, helping everyone but himself.

"Apple?" Jack offers, walking over and lounging against the mast to Norrington's right. The Black Pearl always has fresh fruit on it these days - it helps remind all aboard that there are some things better than gold, silver, and sundry plunder.

Norrington takes the offered apple and bites, chewing as if he's too busy considering something else to truly taste the mouthful.

"There's your problem again, mate. None of you's ever where you actually are, 's all off doing things involving wigs and shiny boots," Jack says conversationally. Norrington has neither shiny boots not a wig in current circumstances. Actually, without the puffed-up fripperies of office on him, Norrington doesn't look nearly so obnoxiously froglike. His dark hair reminds Jack of young Will's, only with more curl to it - Norrington obviously considers this attribute as a personal affront, and Jack can see faint spots and pock-marks on Norrington's forehead; evidence of years spent pulling the skin taut in an effort to tie back and control the natural wave of the dark hair.

Jack recalls vaguely that the Commodore's wig is somewhat the worse for wear after an unfortunate run-in with the case of overripe eggs below deck, but as far as memory serves him nothing has happened to anyone's boots recently.

"They're over there," Norrington says listlessly before Jack can speak. They often do that to each other, preempting ideas and moves. "They were pinching my feet."

Jack can tell straight off that the apathy is as sincere as a tart's kisses. In the year and a half since he got his ship back he's been caught by the Navy on a good half-dozen occasions, and would like to think he knows the head of the fleet a little better than to fall for such a trick.

"You're playing games again. That's nice, was starting to think you didn't love old Capt'n Jack no more."

Norrington's face loses any trace of apathy instantly, hardening as his jaw clenches.

"One battle does not give you the war, Sparrow. I will escape you."

"I don't doubt it, mate, I don't doubt it."

Jack has no hesitation admitting to himself that he's fascinated by Norrington. The man can hear the sea's voice, same as Jack can - though Jack would be hard pressed to say why this knowledge is so obvious to him. Perhaps like simply calls to like, or maybe the wind told him when he was sleeping.

And, even hearing the song the waves sing in the dark, Norrington joined the Navy. The Navy, who build high walls and thick ramparts to hold the tides at bay, who seem to think the ocean can be policed just as the land can with extra provisions provided against damp. That's all the Navy thinks the sea is, Jack's sure of it - wetter land. For Norrington to join such a group makes Jack think of a dancer who willfully hobbles himself.

But it's that sense of goodness and obsessive respect for the law Norrington insists on nurturing which make his choices hold a small amount of sense in them. It goes beyond a fault, it seems as if the man was simply built without selfishness to him. Jack's heard the story from various people who knew someone who knew someone there, stories of how simply and quickly Norrington blessed Elizabeth's choice to love someone who was not himself.

Jack doubts Norrington has ever done anything because he would benefit personally from it, a fact that seems wholly at odds with the man's habitual arrogance, ridiculously stupid, and astoundingly sad at once.

"Cheer up, you're on a holiday. A forced one, I'll concede, but an otherwise entirely beneficial situation." Jack ticks the reasons off on his fingers. "Nobody else to worry about, due largely to the fact you're preoccupied with worrying about your own eventual fate. No need to wear an extremely ugly costume all the time. Rum if you so desire, an entire lack of responsibility, and good company to converse and carouse with. Best of all, it's free of charge - your accommodation and meals having been paid for by the generous merchants of that nice ship we visited this morning."

Norrington's expression isn't the definition of 'unreservedly thrilled'.

"Come on, Commodore. I bet your last holiday was visitin' old ladies with ugly little dogs in Antigua or something horrible like that. You -" Jack points one erratically angled finger in Norrington's direction. "Have the unique opportunity to experience piracy with no guilt whatsoever and instead you keep trying to find a way out of it. You'll get rescued eventually, or have a chance to escape, or something similar, so why not stop botherin' yourself and enjoy the ride? That Gillette fella who licks your boots clean'll keep the world from ending until you get back, even if he can't tell his arse from his elbow."

Norrington gives the faintest and smallest of smiles.

"Knew you were human under the frills. Have to say I did wonder from time to time. Still reckon they sew you fine gentlemen into your uniforms, though."

Now Norrington rolls his eyes, exasperation and boredom once again overpowering his amusement. Jack has met wild tigers who were easier to make tame - at least, he's heard stories about himself that say so. He never knows if such tales are apocryphal or not, as his memory is a somewhat disorganized receptacle.

"You'll reach Tortuga by nightfall if you stay in the wind," Norrington says with a cursory glance at the sails. "What exactly are you planning to do with me then? The Commodore of Port Royal will be somewhat unwelcome in such a disreputable shanty town."

"Could lock you back in the brig," Jack suggests, amused at the fetching shade of pale green Norrington turns at the prospect. "Hate to have to tell you this, mate, but you're not looking your usual mop-handle-up-though-the-back-door regimental best. Nobody'd look twice at you 'less they were attempting to estrange you from your money, so I'm thinking to mistreat you terribly by forcing you to come drinking."

Jack's only half-joking, he thinks Norrington would make an extremely amusing drunk. The thought of a good-sized glass of rum and a plate of unidentifiable fried things possibly made of meat makes Jack's mouth water. As always, the thin scar across his palm twinges in response. Jack scratches at it, as if his fingernails could pull the sting out, and notices Norrington watching the movement with curious interest.

"Will and Elizabeth," Jack says. "Their cuts healed. Weren't cursed, just victims of circumstance, location, and parentage. But Captain Jack Sparrow, well, your charming adversary had to be a clever-clogs and take the gold in order to win the scuffle. Ever thought much about the nature of curses, Commodore?"

Norrington shakes his head and Jack expects some scathing remark, but none materializes. After a moment he takes up the tale again.

"Curses ain't like flames that get blown out with a puff and just leave behind a bit o' smoke... why would heathen gods bother with something tame as that? Nah, curses stick around in small doses, just enough that you don't forget 'em. Enough to be bloody annoying. I've been told I look peaky by moonlight often enough, and this ruddy scar itches if I want anything too badly. If I were the type to engage in self-pitying behavior I would have ample cause."

Apparently genuinely lost for words, Norrington offers no response. Jack slides down to sit diagonally opposite from his prisoner, tipping his hat forward to shade his face. Norrington hadn't had his own hat on him at the time of capture, which is a damn shame. Jack would like to try it on and see for himself if there's a curse hidden by the ridiculous brim - some dark enchantment turning unlucky souls into laughable prats.

"Come in to Tortuga," Jack says in a tone that's equal parts plea and order. "Not all us naughty wicked outlaws have easy-to-see brands for you to know us by. Think of all the rotten apples you'll know by sight in future after spotting them on a sociable evening out."

"I fail to see what you hope to gain by putting me through these indignities."

Jack grins and tilts his head back so he can see under the low brim. "It's an end in itself, mate. Would've thought that was obvious."

"If I've learned anything at all from you, Sparrow - and considering the number of hours invested I certainly hope I have - it's not to assume anything about your motives."

"Now that, I'll concede, is an extremely intelligent approach to yours truly. C'mon, Commodore, seems a shame we've been mortal enemies so long and haven't shared a drink."

When AnaMaria sees Norrington among the group going ashore that evening she gives a snort of disgust and informs Jack that he really does get stupider every day of his life. He bows low and thanks her for the compliment.

"I trust you will not be so trite as to challenge me to some kind of contest?" Norrington says a half-hour later as Jack brings the mugs to the table.

"Not tonight, but I make no such promises for future occasions. Have a feeling you can hold your grog better than most would credit. I made a habit of knowing by foe's measure before the battle, y'see."

With a smile verging on awed, Norrington shakes his head.

"Is there anything you take seriously, Jack Sparrow? Or is life a continual game?"

Jack knows he need not answer, the Commodore knows the truth of gravity, levity, and how one relates to the other. Instead he clicks the rim of his cup against Norrington's, which still rests on the table where Jack placed it.

"Drink up, mate. Table's gonna get knocked over sooner than later."

So they drink, and the great conversation lubricator, alcohol, begins to draw truths out as the night wears on.

"I must confess I was relieved when the child proved to be a girl - I'd dreaded that they might want to name it for me," Norrington says, lifting his (sixth? seventh?) cup out of the way as two arguing patrons make firewood out of the righthand end of the table. "James Turner, can you imagine? Sometimes I suspect Elizabeth asks me to visit and professes her happiness so often in an attempt to salt the wound. It hurts her pride that I don't pine for her."

Jack doesn't interrupt the speech. It's interesting, and Jack has never had a problem with interesting things. Not that he hadn't guessed a bit of it from other information he's gathered over time, but there's nothing like the horse's mouth for hearing the whole story.

"I... I truly did love her. For that brief time I thought we were to wed, the world seemed brighter. Silver, as the ocean sometimes appears in the morning." Norrington looks down, scowling in surprise when he realizes the bottom of his cup is once again visible. "I think that was the trouble. I wanted her because I told myself that having such a life as we would have had would make me happy. I see her and her husband and their little Sarah-Anne and I know that if all that were mine I would be no happier, no more fulfilled, than I am without it."

"So what would make you happy, mate?" Jack asks. Their drinks are refilled, he notices, though he can't recall the serving girl coming round. It's never smart to take your attention off a tavern worker in Tortuga, and Jack chides himself to be more attentive in future. Norrington shakes his head.

"I only wish I knew." He laughs mirthlessly to himself. "I've hardly felt alive save for the time spent chasing your ludicrous ship up and down the coast. How's that for pitiable, eh? The best fun I have in my life is playing cat and mouse with Captain Jack Sparrow. So now you know... I began playing the game in earnest on day one, just as you did."

"Least you chose the best to tangle with," Jack offers diplomatically. He doesn't know what to say to this strangely introspective and friendly Norrington, a new version of a man who is unpredictable at the most sober of times.

Norrington laughs, then sighs. His mug is empty again and he pauses, obviously deliberating with himself.

"Damn it all," he says, and calls the serving girl back for another round.

Tortuga is a town with two souls, one of which can only be seen by mid-morning light. Dawn-time still belongs to the night, washed thin and grey and still too drunk to be regretting it. Afternoon is for preparing for the night to come, re-stocking kitchens with filling and cheap meals and making sure the knives are sharp. But mid-morning is nothing but itself, a time when the restless anger and reckless lust of the town are sleeping off old indiscretions and the world is quiet.

Norrington's already considerable grumpiness isn't reduced... in fact, is notably increased, by the addition of a hangover. Jack's just thankful it appears the dialogue of the preceding night has been washed out of Norrington's memory.

"I can't believe you left me asleep in the pig sty," Norrington says furiously, wiping mud and filth off his face. Jack chuckles, then regrets the action. Even by his own generous standard he had a bit to drink last night.

"Think of it as a parting gift," offers Jack as they walk back towards the shore. "That's one of your pretty boats on the horizon if I'm not mistaken, and I suspect my fine and faithful crew are beginning to feel you're outstayin' your welcome. And so, I regretfully suggest you find passage home with the chaps come looking for you."

Jack wants to clap Norrington on the back, or bow low, but is not so brave as to attempt these feats in his present state.

"Thank God," Norrington mutters. "Hot water... clean clothes." He sighs contentedly at the thought of such creature comforts. Jack snorts and mutters something about poncy powder-haired china dolls. Norrington glares.

"It's unwise, Mr Sparrow, to insult the man who can order you to the noose."

"You're too fond of that threat, mate," retorts Jack. "Time to find a new tune for us to dance to."

"Shall I endeavor to do so before the next round of the game?" Norrington asks with a sly smirk. "Farewell, Captain Jack Sparrow. I trust it won't be too long before I see the Black Pearl in Port Royal waters, weather permitting?"

"Well, I 'ave heard stories of fine Navy brandy, which I'd like to verify." Jack squints against the brightness of the morning as Norrington walks down to the boardwalk to wait for his rescuers.

Turning back towards the town and taverns, Jack considers a nap of his own amongst the pigs. The seasons are turning, the year once again approaching the months of frequent storms and winds. Difficult to hold a public hanging in such conditions. A good opportunity to play the next round of cat and mouse.

Jack's palm starts to itch in anticipation.


End file.
